


Fools and Fair Ones

by LoremIpsum



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Fantasy, M/M, Mind Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1563518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoremIpsum/pseuds/LoremIpsum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:  After the events of the movie, Charles runs away into his own head and he keeps on running right into Wonderland.</p><p>Where he meets suspiciously familiar characters. Who may or may not help him work out his issues.</p><p>Meanwhile in the real world, Erik and Raven are gone and the kids don't know what to do with Charles. At best? They try talking and reading Lewis Carrol to Charles while he's sleeping, hoping he'll wake up.</p><p>And guess what? Charles' keeps hearing them and even past the heartbreak, has to wake up for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fools and Fair Ones

Fools And Fair Ones

Disclaimer:  None of these characters are mine.

* * *

It was while Charles was sitting on the edge of the pool with his legs dipped into brackish water that he spied the chess queen running pell-mell across the lawn. There was nothing odd about a chess piece running and shouting but that she was carrying a metal crown while doing so struck Charles as very exciting.   
  
  
So he hauled himself up, ignored the black stains on his bottom jimjams, and ran straight after her.  
  
  
“Wait,” Charles cried. “Wait, your Majesty!”  
  
  
She shouted back, “I have no time to play around, Charles. I must fetch this quick, oh fool that I am, before that bell rings!”  
  
  
Charles wondered at how she had known his name but she was already escaping him, running too far for Charles to catch up until finally, she vanished in a copse of woods. Frustrated, Charles slowed down and pinched his legs. “What useless legs you are,” he said to them. “You’ve let her escape and now, I am alone again. Well, no matter. I’ll find her again and ask about that peculiar crown she was carrying.”   
  
  
So, as Charles began to walk towards the edge of the woods he realized that these were not, in fact, the lands outside the Westchester manor. It only looked very similarly. “I wonder where I am. Maybe, I’m in Ipswich or maybe I’ve landed in Saratoga. Wherever it is, the weather is atrocious and I will be needing a coat. And some shoes. And perhaps, a walking stick.” And on and on Charles went, detailing to the clouds what he would like to have at that moment.   
  
  
“—and for another, my microscope would be amazing right now,” Charles said to the pair of wych elms right where the white queen disappeared into. The left wych elm turned to him and replied, “I doubt any of those things can really help you right now.”  
  
  
The right elm also turned to speak, “But those material things do offer a small morsel of comfort, enough to help you persist.”  
  
  
“No, no, no.” The left shook its leaves at its friend. “Only your own determination will do that.”  
  
  
“Yes, yes, yes.” The right shook its branches at its friend. “Your determination will be fueled with food and comfort.”  
  
  
Charles cleared his throat to get their attention. “I don’t much care whether anything will give me comfort or help me in whatever. I just said I would like to have them. You know, since it’s such a nice day out despite the nippy wind. And, I don’t need any more help in finding the chess queen. I’m quite determined, you see.”  
  
  
Both elms looked at him and said, “We see a lot, in truth. But that wasn’t quite what we were talking about.”  
  
  
“Well, what were you talking about?”  
  
  
The left sighed gustily. “If you don’t know, how can we possibly know?”  
  
  
“That’s right. If we don’t know, how can you possibly know?” asked the right elm.  
  
  
“But you just—“ Charles spluttered. “That doesn’t make sense!”  
  
  
“You’re not very bright, are you?” said the left. “Dim as a dog, in fact. Not to worry. Intelligence is overrated. You won’t need much here.”  
  
  
“Well, what are you waiting for?” asked the right. “A written invitation from the King? Open the door and walk through.”  
  
  
“I mean,” said the left. “It’s not as if you have much going for you here.”  
  
  
And as they turned away, Charles noticed the round door set into the grass. “That’s true,” Charles said. “I don’t have anything. Not anymore.” He bent down, grabbed the gargoyle latch, and opened it.   
  
  
And Charles jumped into the rabbit-hole.  
  
  
Falling was easy after that. So easy in fact that time slowed down in the hole and Charles fell slowly enough to be able to see the walls around him were bookshelves stuffed with old dusty books and jars of jam and once, Charles managed to grab a pocket-watch as he passed by. But it was broken so he put it back on the next shelf. “They say it isn’t the fall that kills you but the ground,” Charles said. “The shock, as it were. I will just have to make sure not to be surprised when I do land.”  
  
  
Ah, but it was no use. When Charles landed on the couch strewn with leaves, he was still very surprised and squeaked as he tumbled right off it and onto the floor. “Bother,” he said, spitting out a dead leaf.

 

Charles stood up to find himself in a long corridor with wormwood growing in the cracks on the floor. “It was wormwood for bitterness, wasn’t it?” said Charles. “Or was it for absinthe? To make you dream the livelong day.”   
  
  
He walked along the corridor and came to a stop at the end where a tapestry hung from the roof. There were no doors and no windows, not even at the other end of the corridor. So Charles came back to the tapestry to study it. It was red and patchy and had purple frogging. It was a very ostentatious curtain, trying to call attention to itself. And away from something else. Charles then remembered how mother had once covered a secret passage with the same tapestry.   
  
  
And pulling back the cloth, revealed a secret room. A five-sided room with five doors.   
  
  
“It’s a pentagon room,” Charles said to himself because he liked saying out loud all these words he’d learned in science and math. “P-E-N-T-A-G-O-N. For five sides.” And because Charles has always been taught to be thorough, he checked every door’s knob. And all of it turned out to be locked. Huffing, Charles sat on the floor. “Why won’t you open? All the other doors opened easily enough.”   
  
  
He sat there for a while brooding.   
  
  
And when he tired of that, Charles lay back down and stared up at the glass roof. And saw the little shelf above the door where a tiny metal cup was hiding. Charles stood up on his tiptoes to knock it over, where it spilled its contents on the floor. Jammie dodgers with reddish hearts cut into the biscuit. Eating one made Charles feel several hundred degrees lighter.   
  
  
Light enough that he started to float.   
  
  
“Oh!” Charles said as he scrabbled for a hold on the curtain. He did not want to float off into the sky and out into space. It would be terribly cold. His legs were so light that it floated above him, flipping him upside down in the air. “Oh!” he said again. And of course, he did not want to track mud on the ceiling. That would be an inconvenience for the maids to clean. Charles always strived to be polite.  
  
  
He slid all the way up until the glass ceiling was barely a foot away from his dirty feet.   
  
  
“What are you doing? You’re ruining that curtain,” said a disapproving voice.  
  
  
Charles looked around him and spotted the dragonfly flittering outside of the glass dome. She crossed her arms and tut-tutted him. “Really. Why don’t you use your wings? That’s what they’re there for.”   
  
  
“Wings?” Charles said. And she was right. Right behind Charles, were four wings: two forewings and two hindwings.   
  
  
“Oh, you’re a papilio Ulysses. I’ve always liked those,” said the dragonfly. “Come on then. Give it a whirl. Flap both to steer. I can’t be bothered to wait the whole day.”  
  
  
Then Charles did so, flapping both wings and blowing gusts of wind against the curtain.  
  
  
“Let go of the curtain,” said the dragonfly. “It’s better not to hold on to things for too long.”  
  
  
“Alright.” Then Charles took a deep breath and loosened his grip. Using the wings, Charles flip-flapped right through the ceiling where dragonfly was holding a glass pane open. “You know,” Charles said to the dragonfly as they both flitted through the open air. “A butterfly flies a bit like a helicopter with a technique called the wake capture. Little vortices of air are letting me float right up.” And in fact, this left Charles very cold even through the thick cotton of his jimjams.  
  
  
And it made it very difficult to steer as Charles was lurching left and right and up and down and sideways and all the ways you can think of.   
  
  
“You are very inexperienced at this, aren’t you?” the dragonfly said kindly. “Knowing something and doing it are very different things. Like promising a hive to belong to.”  
  
  
“But it’s a start,” Charles said, a little broken-hearted.   
  
  
“Yes, but not enough.”  
  
  
“So, you moved? Was it better?” Charles asked as they flew over an overgrown garden. “Did it make you happier?”

 

“I don’t know,” she said. “I can fight back and hurt those who hurt me. But I never feel good when they start crying.”  
  
  
“I’m sorry,” Charles said.  
  
  
The dragonfly turned to reply but a massive butterfly net swooped right over her. And Charles yelped as another one fell on him, keeping him in the darkness. Charles heard one last scream before he stopped struggling against the weave of the net. Then he stayed in the dark for some time, curled up and wished very hard that he’d never flied at all.  
  
  
It was a while later that the net shook him out into a very large palm whose fingers closed over his head like a cage.   
  
  
Charles peered through the spaces in between and saw the Scientist. He had on very large goggles with metal knobs and wheels on it, the number of which Charles suspected was merely for display. “Well, what have we here?” tut-tutted the Scientist. “What a very odd butterfly.”  
  
  
And behind the Scientist were rows and rows of butterflies pinned to the wall.   
  
  
The sight made Charles’ stomach cramp in dread. “Please, what have you done with the dragonfly?”  
  
  
“And it speaks,” the Scientist exclaimed. “Little one, I let her go. I have no interest in dragonflies. Dreadful things, they are. No elegance, no beauty. Entirely too fierce and independent for my tastes. You, on the other hand, are perfect. A perfect specimen.”  
  
  
Charles stood up and beat his wings weakly against the fingers. “Are you going to…hurt me?”  
  
  
“If the experiment requires it,” the Scientist said, unmindful of him. “Now, where is that wretched child? Cain? Cain, come here. Prepare the jar.”  
  
  
That was when Charles noticed the sullen looking boy in an ill-fitting lab coat. The boy was not gentle in taking him from the Scientist, rough fingers scraping against Charles’ wings, pulling little glittering scales free. And when Cain slammed him into a glass jar, his sleeve slipped and revealed tiny circular burns on a pale wrist. Cain shoved a sugar cube into the jar then pulled a net over its mouth.   
  
  
Then the boy disappeared back into the shadows of the room as if he was never there.  
  
  
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a dullard of a boy as that one,” the Scientist said as he washed his hands and patted down his lab coat. “His mother was a drinker, you know. I’m not surprised he turned out that way, with the way she drank while pregnant. Drink, drink, drink. That’s all she did. Let that be a lesson to you, Charles.”  
  
  
He found a slim cigarette and lit it. Then inhaled with a big deep breath. “Don’t do anything bad for your body. Including drinking out of bottles with warning labels.”   
  
  
The Scientist fumbled around his coat pockets again. He took out a well-worn picture and showed it to Charles. “Isn’t she beautiful? Loved her first husband, of course. Loved him so much, she had no more room for me or Cain.” The Scientist puffed again on his cigarette, burning right through half of it in that single breath. “True love, right there. You know what they say about pairs like that. Two sides of a coin.”  
  
  
And the Scientist said in an almost monotonous voice, “And you can’t split them apart without destroying both.”  
  
  
He puffed his cigarette, finishing it, then snuffed it out on his own skin. Where more of those circular burn marks hid.   
  
  
“Remember that, Charles. Love like that will destroy you. Lives end, hearts break, and people leave.”  
  
  
Charles wasn’t sure what to say and so said nothing. He sat on top of the sugar cube and watched the Scientist bury himself in notes. It was a while later, after hours and hours of listening to the scratching of the Scientist’ pen, that Charles asked, “Does it ever get better? Even devoting yourself to—“ Charles waved at the rows of butterflies and rows of papers, “all of this?”  
  
  
The Scientist stopped writing and without looking back, answered. “Of course, it’s better. I don’t feel it hurt. In fact, I don’t feel much of anything at all.”  
  
  
And then, Charles understood. He understood why there was a heart-shaped hole in the Scientist’ chest.

 

And Charles could do no more than curl up inside the glass jar.  
  
  
He promised to himself then that no matter what happened, he would never end up like the Scientist nor like his wife. One, wasted in a bottle. The other, wasted without a heart. If love did all this, then Charles would never love another.   
  
  
Then Charles began to devise a plan to escape the Scientist.   
  
  
He didn’t want to spend another minute inside the glass jar. So, Charles started eating the sugar cube. He ate and he ate until he felt so sick that he vomited all over the glass jar. The Scientist stood up at the sound and cursing about contamination of the subject, ripped the net from the jar’s mouth. He shoved his whole hand in, trying to trap Charles all over again. But Charles was ready and opened his mouth lined with sharp white teeth and bit the Scientist.  
  
  
He screamed, dropping the jar.  
  
  
It shattered on the ground and Charles was already flying—flying past hooked fingers, flying past vitriolic words hurled at him, flying past invisible little Cain who stared at him with dead eyes and then opened a gilded book into an inked garden—and Charles dived right into the page, the covers slamming shut behind him, catching on his delicate wings, and the agony of his wings tearing apart was enough to push Charles into blacking out right in the middle of a field of sunflowers.  
  
  
It was in fact, a very lucky chance.  
  
  
If Charles had been awake and hiding in fear, he would have attracted the attention of a large slithering dragon whose mouth was full of venom and whose head was filled with even worse. It had rotten scales, the lingering smell of death and putrefaction, and a bloated stomach where worms wriggled. It ate of despair from creatures smaller than it, and the fear and hatred of all.   
  
  
As it was, it passed the clump of sunflowers where Charles was with nary a glance at him. It stumped along, licking its cracked lips with a forked tongue. On one of its horns glinted the metal crown.  
  
  
If Charles had been awake, he would have run after the dragon and died.   
  
  
There was no understanding to be had with such a creature as this. No, the dragon would have happily torn Charles limb from limb. In its view, Charles was a weakling no matter the strength of his mutation. In its view, everyone was burning and it was feasting on all their corpses.  
  
  
By and by, the dragon left.   
  
  
And a blue teddy bear began walking along the garden. The bear’s sniffling and crying woke Charles up, who had quite forgotten he had ever had wings. He peered through the mess of stems. The bear had a sweet little bow tie and coke bottle glasses that seemed to magnify intelligent eyes that were currently very red and very teary. “Oh, Mr. Bear,” Charles said. “Why cry so?”  
  
  
“It is scientific fact,” the bear tremulously answered. “—that ursidae mammals are either brown or white or black and white. And yet, I am very blue and scientifically impossible.”   
  
  
“Why,” Charles said. “That’s not very impossible at all. Winnie the Pooh is very yellow. And Baloo is grey and wears a pilot hat. And Beorn sometimes likes to turn human to talk with the Little People. I might even go further and say that being impossible is perfectly special. One of a kind. Like the rare telegraph plant. It dances, you know. This plant was Charles Darwin’s favorite plant, who I might note had the same name as I.”  
  
  
“That is true. We scientists like variety in specimens and we certainly love anomalies in our data as they always yield the most information.” But the bear still sighed and wept into his blue furry paws. “It would not be so bad if there was one other blue bear and I was not so alone and made fun of. That is the thing, you see. Nobody wants to be alone, not even to be one-of-a-kind. Sometimes, I even wished I was just a normal brown bear and belong with other normal brown bears.”  
  
  
“But don’t you see?” asked Charles. “We say, that is as scientists, we must take care with our endangered species because there are so few of them in the world. Their value is in their rarity like diamonds. It is a very special occasion to see a telegraph plant dance, you know. Because not many can say they’ve seen such a wonder.”

 

“That does not address the fact that I am alone,” said the bear. “And I always will be with my wretched blue fur.”  
  
  
Charles began laughing. “But you are not alone right now. I am with you. Just because I am not a bear does not mean we cannot be friends or be a tribe together. Why not stay with me? We can study Science together. Why, our very differences will make life much more interesting to live in.”  
  
  
“A team does need different strengths to cover different weaknesses,” the bear said. “I would still rather be brown but I will stay with you.”  
  
  
“Oh, Mr. Bear. I think you are perfectly lovely like this. But thank you. For staying.” And because Charles could not help himself, he stood up from the crush of sunflowers and hugged the sweet old bear. He was very warm and very furry and he murmured into Charles’ ear, “Oh, Professor.”  
  
  
Charles pulled back. “What?”  
  
  
“There are so many things I want—no, need to tell you. About how I pushed the raven away and she flew and flew so high, she crashed right into the sun.” The bear wiped its red eyes. “Please wake up, Professor. I don’t want to be alone anymore.”  
  
  
Charles stared at the bear, who after those words had stilled. He hugged it again for good measure. The bear didn’t move nor did it talk. So Charles began to walk, swinging the bear by hand like a child with his favorite toy.   
  
  
Now and then, Charles would find x-ray photographs of strange things. He would bend down and inspect them, stuck in the tangle of grass and leaves. He would show them to the bear, explaining what they were and what one could conclude from them. One was an x-ray of a butterfly. Another was an x-ray of a rose. And Charles even found an x-ray of a raven.  
  
  
It began flapping its skeletal wings.  
  
  
Charles stepped back, hiding the bear behind him.  
  
  
The x-ray photograph flew in the air and began folding and refolding itself like an origami being made. It ended into a very large raven who perched herself on the wooden fence next to Charles. She cocked her head at him and Charles did so likewise. They stared at each other for a while, heads titled together. “Have you seen a metallic crown somewhere? I’m looking for it.”  
  
  
“Oh, yes. A white queen was carrying it,” said Charles. “I was following her, in fact. But I was a bit slow and lost her.”   
  
  
The raven huffed.   
  
  
To appease her, Charles said, “Well, why don’t you follow me? I’m looking for the white queen as well. I’m sure together we’ll find her.”  
  
  
“I’m not a PET,” the raven screeched. “But I will follow you. It’s hard, you know. Being a raven in the wilderness.” She settled on Charles’ head, claws digging in. “Always hungry, in fact. Starving to my knees. My metaphorical knees that are lovely and scaly.”   
  
  
Charles patted down his jim jams and found one last jammie dodger in a pocket. He handed it to her and her sharp beak snapped it up quick. “Mm. Thanks. You are a very nice boy. But I’m not a fuckin’ PET, okay? So, don’t do that again.”  
  
  
Charles didn’t know what to say and so he didn’t say anything.   
  
  
The raven suddenly squawked and pecked him on the head.   
  
  
“Ow! Why did you do that?”  
  
  
She gave him a hurt look. “You didn’t agree. You didn’t say my knees were lovely, being scaly as they are. Boys used to throw rocks at me for these knees.”  
  
  
“B-but they are!” Charles said. “They’re very lovely and those boys shouldn’t have thrown rocks at a lady. Nobody should throw rocks at anybody.”  
  
  
“You think I’m a lady?” asked the raven. “You really think so?”  
  
  
“Yes, of course, I think so. You know I do.”   
  
  
“Would you kiss me?”  
  
  
“Wh—No! You’re the raven and I’m Charles.”  
  
  
“Yes, I know. Professor Xavier, trust fund baby, leading geneticist of his generation,” the raven said, a sour tinge in her expression. “I mean, as a guy. Would you consider me attractive?”  
  
  
Charles squirmed under her claws. “Any man would be lucky to have you. But I don’t think you should—um.”  
  
  
“What? You don’t think I should go out like this? You don’t think men would date me? What am I like, Cha-a-arles? Like a monster? Like a freak?” The raven’s voice was becoming shaky and self-loathing.

 

Charles stared at his dirty feet. “…I don’t think you should base your happiness on a man. You’re beautiful, Raven. And you don’t need a man to tell you that.”  
  
  
The raven was quiet for a while.  
  
  
“Sometimes, compliments from men are nice too,” she admitted. “Don’t ever read my mind, Charles.”  
  
  
A bit stung, Charles said, “I didn’t.”  
  
  
“Well, don’t ever try.”  
  
  
The raven subsided as Charles walked through the sunflower field. More and more, he would find x-ray photos of broken bones and broken legs. More and more, Charles’ legs became heavier and heavier to lift. Until finally, Charles was too dizzy to go on any further and simply lay on the ground, resting his unresponsive legs. “I…I think you should go. You want to. You need to.”  
  
  
The raven hopped off and landed on the grass in front of him. “You promised. You promised you wouldn’t read my mind.”  
  
  
Charles stared up through the sunflowers. “I’m sorry. I wish I could make you happy. But I know I can’t.”  
  
  
The raven nodded as if she understood. “I hate you, you know.”  
  
  
Charles made a broken sound.  
  
  
“I’ve been in your shadow for too long,” the raven continued. “But I loved you too. I still do.” She caressed her beak through his hair, comforting. “I had to leave. For myself. You understand?”  
  
  
Charles smiled. “You know I do.”  
  
  
Dark blood was seeping out of Charles’ pajamas, staining the green grass red. His legs weren’t moving. His hips weren’t moving. And Charles wasn’t moving even as the raven kissed him goodbye and whispered her words in his hear. “You have no idea how sorry I am. How sick with grief I’ve made myself with. If you would just wake up, you’d know. Just wake up. Please, for me.”   
  
  
“I love you too, Raven. I always will.”   
  
  
The raven gave a cry, a pure clarion tone that shook the sunflowers, that shook the grass, that shook the sky. In a whirl of black feathers, she disappeared.   
  
  
And then Charles was alone.   
  
  
Then Charles told the sky, “I can’t feel my legs. I can’t. I can’t feel my legs.” He stared down. That was because, he didn’t have legs. He didn’t have anything below his hips. Just grass and sunflowers and x-rays of broken things. His jimjams just ended in a curve over his belly, as if a Ken doll had its whole hips and legs unscrewed off. Charles began to crawl, hauling his half-body along on trembling arms.  
  
  
“I can do this. I want to do this. Mind over matter.” Charles muttered to himself, encouraging himself. “I am stronger than this. I still want to do Science. I still want to do Research. So I need to move without legs. It’s easy, Charles. Very easy for someone with your IQ. Mind over reality.”  
  
  
He dragged his half-body along the grass, like a lopsided snake. Charles ignored the jabs of tiny rocks, the rough clasp of broken stems, and the sting of the burning sun. Charles crawled through the grass by gritting his teeth and digging his fingers in the dirt and pulling his torso along.   
  
  
But going downhill was a different matter. And Charles hadn’t even noticed. Not until he tripped and fell, rolling downhill like a strange caterpillar. He hit a tree, knocking his head against rough bark, scraping his hands against rocks. He sniffed. “How stupid, Charles. You can’t even remember the law of gravity? This is your fault, you know. If only you’d paid enough attention. You’re so very stupid.”  
  
  
Charles choked a bit on a knot in his throat.   
  
  
As if he couldn’t swallow.   
  
  
And worse of all, Charles started crying. Fat hot tears. Because he’d forgotten the teddy bear up the hill. And now, he’d broken another promise. And when Charles tired himself from crying, he curled his shivering half-body around the tree and murmured to himself, “I don’t want to wake up. Not ever.” And then Charles slept. Slept and slept until leaves and vines and roses grew all over him.  
  
  
The beating of his heart slowed.  
  
  
Odd, that it sounded like a heart monitor flatlining.

* * *

 

In the dark, underneath the cocoon of thorns and leaves, Charles was drifting in and out of consciousness. Charles couldn’t fully fall asleep because someone was screaming his name. They were screaming it over and over again, a tinny kind of sound that kept scratching at Charles’ mind. 

  
  
A beam of light spilled through the cocoon.  
  
  
Charles closed his eyes for a moment, too sleepy to ask questions.   
  
  
The cocoon rocked violently, leaves tumbling down. More and more holes opened on the cocoon, the glare of light spilling through. The voice was clearer, deeper and almost familiar. It kept saying his name like a prayer. Drips of blood splattered on the ground.   
  
  
The shadow of fingers clawed at the holes, five long shades hooked in the glare. It explained the blood, Charles thought.   
  
  
A hole opened up right beside Charles’ head and an eye peered through. It was a strange color, sometimes blue and sometimes quicksilver. And now it was an almost angry steel color and when it focused on Charles, it dilated instantly, the black expanding outward. Then the voice came through, clear and desperate.   
  
  
“Charles. I found you. I have you. I’ve got you.”  
  
  
Charles smiled and closed his eyes again. He wanted to let go. He was tired now. He didn’t want to get up. It hurt too much, everything. Charles just wanted to sleep.   
  
  
The fingers were scrabbling at the thorns, dripping blood from a thousand cuts. It opened up a hole big enough to let a hand through, reaching out to Charles. Then it stopped. The arm couldn’t go through anymore without ripping it from its shoulder. “Charles, please. Please take my hand.”  
  
  
“I don’t want to,” Charles murmured. “I’m quite comfortable here.”  
  
  
The wall of stems shook as the other arm pounded on it.   
  
  
“Charles. Take my hand. Or I swear to you, I will kill every last human on this continent.”  
  
  
“You won’t. You’re not a monster.”  
  
  
The voice sucked in its breath. “…You don’t want to sleep. The Charles I know hated sleeping. He was always up and about, flipping through scientific journals or arguing with fat old men who don’t know any better. He was always tinkering around in the lab with his white coat and goggles stuck in the bush he calls hair. Charles was always curious, always chatty, always playful. He was always playing games with the children and with—with me.”   
  
  
Charles stared wearily at the hand in front of him. “But I’m tired. I want to sleep.”   
  
  
“Then—then play one more game with me. Just one more.”  
  
  
Charles considered this. “…Okay.” He put his hand on the not-monster’s and interlaced their fingers. The hand squeezed him tightly, shaking. It pulled him out, the leaves and stems and thorns bending out of his way like harmless crinkled paper. It pulled his half-body out of the cocoon and into the Not-monster’s embrace. “…You need to give me a name, Charles. Here, I don’t have one—not until you give me one.”   
  
  
Charles smiled up at those grey eyes and said, “The King. All hail the King.”  
  
  
The King tucked Charles under his chin, inhaling deeply from Charles’ hair. The King’s clothes began to morph into black leather, metallic plated armor, and slim silver chains holding onto various swords. A large white cross appeared on his torso.   
  
  
All around them, the grass was being paved with black and white stone tiles, slamming down into the ground, a thunderous beating in Charles’ ears. Vibrant green hedges grew tall, wall after wall of dense leaves growing to form odd pathways. It left one opening, an arched doorway into a labyrinth paved with chess tiles.  
  
  
The King snorted. “Really. Are you so bored with normal chess now?”  
  
  
Charles shrugged. “I still don’t have any legs.”  
  
  
The King paused. Then he laid his swords in a row in front of Charles. The King held his hand high and loose, relaxed. The swords’ metal melted, glittering pools in the grass. The King fisted his hand. The metal slithered like snakes, fast and silent. It grew, building on top of each other. The King made him a pair of metallic legs. Hips, legs, and feet. They were beautiful, almost human-like.

 

The King set Charles on top of the legs. Charles shuddered at the cold and shuddered even more when the metal sank into his flesh, to fasten itself. The King gripped his face. “No, a little shorter.”  
  
  
The metal obeyed, draining some metal out of the legs. Charles shrank, enough that he fit under the King like a missing puzzle piece. The King kissed his forehead, kissed the tip of his nose, then kissed his mouth. Then he held Charles’ hand and stepped up to the entrance of the maze.  
  
  
“Be careful, my King,” Charles said, dreamily. “Monsters live inside.”  
  
  
The King nodded but didn’t seem to realize what Charles was really saying. They both stepped inside and faced two paths. The path of pins and the path of needles. Charles would have taken the path of pins but the King was already dragging him down the path of needles.   
  
  
They walked down a little further; high walls of hedges surrounding them.   
  
  
Charles began to lose track of time in the maze. The crossroads looked the same, the paths looked the same, and even the sky looked the same. And when Charles began to lose time, he began to lose his sense of direction as well, completely forgetting which direction the entrance was or even which direction the last turn they made was. It began to muddle in his head—left right left left up down up up right right right left down down up up up down right left right left left right up up straight down right up left down down left right right left down.  
  
  
The King and Charles arrived in a small round courtyard past the last turn.   
  
  
There were two doors in the courtyard, filigreed with grinning angels and demons intertwined. The stone tiles were carved with letters, a long story presented.   
  
  
A trolley is hurtling down a path of railroad tracks that would diverge into two paths. The trolley’s breaks are broken and the trolley will crash straight into a construction pit if continuing on its current course. Five people on board are screaming for help. The person who put them there is standing next to you. To stop the trolley, all you have to do is push this person onto the tracks, saving all five people but killing this one person. What will you do?  
  
  
The left door had the inscription, Save One.  
  
  
The right door had the inscription, Save Five.  
  
  
The King glanced back at Charles. Tightened his grip on Charles’ hand and then walked determinedly towards the right door. Charles didn’t comment, not even when his stomach was twisting up in cold cramps. The King had made this choice before.   
  
  
The door opened up into another courtyard with two doors. Two plain doors. The stone tiles told their tale.  
  
  
The trolley is hurtling down a path…Five people are screaming for help. The killer is standing next to you, chained to his parole officer. To stop the trolley, you must push both the killer and the parole officer onto the train tracks. What will you do?  
  
  
The left door said, Save Two.  
  
  
The right door said, Save Five.  
  
  
Charles was beginning to shiver uncontrollably into a cold sweat. A fever was shining in his eyes, skin a pale pallor. The King looked back at him and gripped his hand. And he dragged Charles to the right door.   
  
  
It opened up to the last courtyard.   
  
  
Before the King could read the last story, Charles dug his feet in and said, “No.”  
  
  
“What do you mean, no?”  
  
  
Charles stared at the King. “No. The path of pins or the path of needles? Saving Five by Killing One or Two? Both were absurd choices and you knew it.”  
  
  
The King stared at him. “What would you have liked me to do? Nothing? Stand there frozen, impotent and powerless?” Then the King started to look angry. “I won’t. I won’t stand idly by again as my people are slaughtered by the hundreds because of bigotry and stupidity. Look around, Charles. How many of our kind must die because of your neglect? And how many can I save merely by exterminating the homo sapiens so intent on our destruction?”

 

“The question is, my King,” said Charles. “At what point will you stop? Will you kill only the human soldiers? Or will you kill human boys who have the potential of becoming soldiers? Will you kill all these humans without trial? Without judge or jury? Will you kill a human who reacts out of fear and ignorance? Killing is easy, my liege. For you and I, it’s as easy as thinking it or willing the metal to do it.”  
  
  
“And for them, it’s as easy as pressing a button on a bomb or pushing down a trigger of a gun,” the King argued.  
  
  
“How many of them will have a bomb in hand? A gun? How many civilians will have that kind of access to military weapons? And how will you judge who is mutant and who is not? Some mutations appear at birth. Some appear in puberty. Some come as late as a person’s fiftieth birthday. Some never even appear, only lying dormant until desperately needed. How will you judge them then?”  
  
  
“Gene identification. I thought you were a scientist, Charles. A geneticist. It should not be hard to find the gene proclaiming to all and sundry who is mutant and who is not.”  
  
  
“Are you listening to yourself? You fear mutant registration yet you have no compunction with human registration? And what if they had the choice? What if there was a serum to turn any ordinary human into a mutant? What powers they could choose! And what if there was a serum that did the opposite? Nulling mutant abilities? What will you do then? After all, we have no idea how the mutant gene works or how it even begins or ends. And what if I became human? Because of the bullet? Of the trauma and the shock?”  
  
  
“Charles—“ The King’s voice sounded wrecked. “What would you have me do? I must stop the violence done to us. I suffered one genocide, I will not let the children suffer it as well.”  
  
  
“Violence begets violence. Blood with blood. It’s a cycle of violence.” Charles raised blurry eyes to his King. “What if I gave you a world of mutants? With Cerebro, what if I turned all the humans like us?”  
  
  
“…Could you?”  
  
  
“I won’t,” Charles said. “By god, I will not take that choice from them. Did you even know? Mutant or human. They’re completely identical.”  
  
  
“They do not have the mutant gene.”  
  
  
“I meant telepathically speaking. Oh my King. If you could see what I see, hear what I hear in their hearts and minds, how astonished you would be.”  
  
  
“Do not patronize me, Charles. All their good intentions and good will mean nothing when their system treats us like lepers and euthanizes us for our own good.” The courtyard began to fill with shadows, dark smothering things.  
  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with defending ourselves. But without education, how will they know anything different? How do you fight against a system that doesn’t even know of us yet?You purport to destroy the system without yet having tried to change it. When you put on Shaw’s crown? Do you know what happened? You became his monster, his weapon, his greatest legacy.”  
  
  
The King drew in a sharp breath. “You go too far. That was my choice and I chose freely as I will now.”  
  
  
“It’s funny how all your choices rebound to punish me.”  
  
  
The King grabbed Charles by his shoulders, eyes wild and teeth bared and shadow flaring. “Killing is a line you won’t cross. But your very inaction will kill hundreds of us, hundreds who are better, superior in every way.”  
  
  
Charles stared into those grey eyes, felt his heart skip, and realized his folly. And then he said his damning words. “I would rather you abandoned me with my useless legs than watch you become a monster like Shaw.”  
  
  
The King howled, shaking Charles.   
  
  
Shadows surged and slipped into the King’s skin, crawling over him. They extended behind him, two massive claw-tipped wings made of shadows and Shaw’s poison and it filled the courtyard, filled the sky to the brim, invading all of Charles’ space. And that hated metallic crown was on the King’s head, lovely silver and grey. And the King would still not let go, holding him like a child clutching a blanket in fear.

 

“Is that what you think of me, Charles? A monster like Shaw? Do you despise me? Fear me? Do I disgust you?” The King began to weep and his tears were bitter in Charles’ mouth. “Even when I took your legs?”   
  
  
Charles kissed his King on his mouth, bitter tears like ashes. “Oh my King. You can be great, a leader among men, the pinnacle of a revolution. Or you can be terrible, a scourge to your enemies, drenched in their blood. But I will always love you. There is nothing on earth that you can do that will sway what I feel. You know that. Not even when you stole my legs.”  
  
  
“But you will not come with me,” said the King.  
  
  
“No.”  
  
  
The King stole one last kiss, crushing Charles to him as if desperate to imprint himself into Charles. “Then so be it,” said the King and entered the door on the right that said, Save the Mutants.  
  
  
And left Charles alone, metal legs rusting and crumpling under him.  
  
  
The sound of that door closing shattered Charles into tiny pieces so that even all the King’s men and all the King’s horses couldn’t put him back together again. How foolish, Charles thought to himself. He’d broken his own vow and now the King had left and Charles’ heart was broken. He stayed on the ground of the courtyard for some time, staring at the two doors.   
  
  
Save the Mutants.  
  
  
Save the Humans.  
  
  
He stayed there like a broken toy, waiting.  
  
  
The roses began to grow. Dark red like blood. Leaves and thorns and thick nettled stems like barbed wire growing all around him. Thicker, impenetrable, unbeatable. Once it caged around him, there would be no going out. This would be the end. Charles had said it, after all. He couldn’t come back with the King. The first to shut down was Charles’ vision. Colors bled and fuzzed out. Until grey static began to snow and fill his eyes.   
  
  
Charles heard his name repeated like a prayer—by voices he no longer recognized. But they made his eyes run with tears.  
  
  
So, it was with some relief that his hearing shut down. White noise descended around him.   
  
  
His breathe began to slow.  
  
  
The roses had completed a whole circle around him and were weaving over him, walls and walls of roses.   
  
  
One last circle of sunlight was still open.   
  
  
But it was closing, becoming smaller and smaller.  
  
  
//So you’re giving up?//  
  
  
Sean, Charles thought.  
  
  
/I don’t blame you, Prof. But don’t you think you have a lot more than just the Raven or the King waiting?/ Alex. They were speaking to him, pressing their hands on his head, speaking into his mind, throwing words into the darkness—hoping something will listen.  
  
  
//Yeah, Prof. You have so much to offer the world, I mean, you’re super smart. Like a genius.//  
  
  
/And rich. You have so much you can do. So much potential, wasn’t that what you used to say? You can save so many mutants. And humans./  
  
  
Sean laughed, young and rich in hope. //Yeah. You can be like the negotiator. The mediator. The point in between the humans and the mutants.//  
  
  
But I failed, Charles thought. And now, I have no one. What was the point?  
  
  
Alex answered back. /You still have us. We need you. When you took me out of prison, what do you think I was thinking, following two strangers? I was thinking, finally, a chance. A second chance./  
  
  
//And how many people will give all the other mutants a second chance, Prof? With the King rampaging around, with only a sword for a revolution, how long will we survive?//  
  
  
Oh, Sean. How long have you been hiding your inner philosopher?  
  
  
//Watching fishes will make you think hell a lot. A revolution needs a sword and a pen, Prof. Otherwise, people only remember the blood.//  
  
  
/The point in between. Between serenity and rage. Between action and knowledge. Between control and letting go. Isn’t that what you taught us?/  
  
  
//We don’t condone what the King is doing. But we can’t stay back in the shadows anymore.//  
  
  
/We need you to be that compromise./  
  
  
//We need you period. We won’t have much of a future if the King starts another world war.//  
  
  
Alex and Sean and Hank. Hadn’t Charles picked them up and trained them and taken responsibility over them? Hadn’t he?   
  
  
/Aren’t we…family?/

 

The last rose was spiraling across the last opening.  
  
That’s right. Charles still had them. Charles still had Alex, Sean, Hank. Charles wasn’t alone. He couldn’t leave them alone.   
  
Charles blinked awake.  
  
  
Charles scrabbled to his feet—broken pieces stitching together, gluing and fitting all the patchwork pieces—wasn’t even surprised to find legs growing under him, the same pale bony ones he had from before—and Charles was grabbing at the last rose in the opening. He pulled it back, thorns cutting into his skin, he pulled and pulled. He dug his feet into the ground and pulled. The roses fought back, hauling at him, clawing at him. No, Charles thought. No, he will not be like the heartless Scientist or the running Raven or the unyielding King. No, he will not be like them.  
  
  
No, wasn’t he the Professor? The one who teaches, the one who guides?  
  
  
Charles pulled and fought the tide.  
  
  
Until he’d unraveled the whole cocoon from around him, roses after roses uncoiling. Ulysses, the clever one, the roses whispered to him. The one who underwent a journey, a long odyssey. Yes, Charles thought.   
  
  
Charles couldn’t leave them no more than Ulysses could abandon his journey towards home.  
  
  
He stared at the two doors, the two sides of the argument. And Charles laughed, because it was silly. Silly and absurd. He held up two hands as the maze stood around him in anticipation. And he slammed both palms together—the two doors following, slamming into each other until they became double-leaf doors that opened outward. What great heights, Charles could climb!  
  
  
The inscription now said, Save the World.  
  
  
Charles grinned because it was silly and wonderful and probably naïve, but Charles had never contented himself with anything lower. And Charles walked out of the maze of his own mind and back to his family.  
  
  
\--  
Charles didn’t wake up all at once. It took some time reorienting himself. For the first day out of the maze, Charles was moving around in bed, flinching from touch, and speaking gibberish. He still couldn’t seem to see out of the darkness but he could hear voices, familiar ones.  
  
  
The next few days, Charles began to really wake up.  
  
  
Alex and Sean were there. And even Hank sneaked in at night. And on his bedside, was a plate of jammie dodgers which the boys ate heartily from and nattered on about anything and everything. And later on, when Charles was discharged and got home in a wheelchair, he found three things in his study. A little metallic papilio Ulysses, a raven’s feather, and Shaw’s helmet. It wasn’t compromise but it was a start.   
  
  
Charles smiled to find himself at home again.  
  
  
Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I figured I better start collecting my stories in one place again. This was from the Xmen Firstkink at livejournal. Here's the original link: https://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/7736.html?thread=14300728#t14300728
> 
> And the philosophical problem presented in the maze is the Trolley Problem.


End file.
